


Imperium

by Lif61 (UltimateFandomTrash), UltimateFandomTrash



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abuse, Anal Sex, Crucifixion, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Demon Blood, Demon Blood Addict Sam Winchester, Drug Use, Endverse, F/M, M/M, Multi, Non-Consensual, Non-Consensual Touching, Oral Sex, Past Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, Possession, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Rough Sex, Sam Winchester Has Powers, Sam Winchester on Demon Blood, Sexual Abuse, Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester, Torture, Vaginal Sex, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2020-06-03 09:58:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19461619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UltimateFandomTrash/pseuds/Lif61, https://archiveofourown.org/users/UltimateFandomTrash/pseuds/UltimateFandomTrash
Summary: Sam is in the Cage, or at least, he thinks he is. Lucifer gives him a deal. Lucifer will give Sam what he wants - control - in exchange for what he himself wants - sexual favors, and to show him the Apocalypse. With this new world, Sam is caught between realities, and his new power given to him by Lucifer brings him down a darker and darker path.





	1. Mancipium Satanae

**Author's Note:**

> Seeing as I have two incomplete longfics, I don't know when I'll get to this one again, but I really had fun with the first chapter, and I've had it sitting in my docs for awhile, so I thought I'd post it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Slave of Satan_

_Clang!_

Excruciating pain shot through Sam’s right wrist, all the way up his arm, and down through his hand.

_Clang!_

Skin was torn, blood spurted, bones were crushed, and the massive iron nail went all the way through his wrist and into the wood. This horrific thing had already been done to his left wrist, blood _drip-drip-drip_ ping down to the dark stone of the Cage, where it pooled before falling down into the void. The void itself was filled with a dense, eternal fog, and blasts of lightning that struck him with the stench of ozone. But the scent didn’t cover up the metallic sweetness of his own blood, and it was clogging his mouth, nipping his tongue while he threw his head back against the wooden cross he lay horizontally on, and screamed. His ankles were tied, bones already broken, the throbbing agonizing; they were up next.

It could’ve been day 167 in the Cage, day 666 (Sam inwardly laughed at his own little joke while moans left his mouth), or even day 45,922. There was absolutely no way to tell. It was all Hell, truly and positively Hell.

_Clang!_ The Devil drove the hammer into the nail — the nail being one of the ones that would have been used in ancient Roman crucifixions — one last time, the thicker part digging deeper into Sam’s flesh, a hot burst of pain making him yell so loudly his diaphragm hurt and an ache started in his chest. He rested his head back, trying to catch his breath, hair hanging limp about his face, sweaty from this ordeal.

Lucifer patted his cheek.

Sam wished he could snarl, but he couldn’t find the strength.

The fallen archangel started in on his feet. They’d already been tied so tight he’d lost circulation to them, just so he wouldn’t move or fight. Now the nail was being driven through, Sam’s chest heaving, tears streaking his face as he howled like he was dying.

He wished he was dying.

Every day he wished for death.

Sometimes there was death.

It was how the Cage worked.

But each day he was brought back to torture anew.

All this to save the world.

Sometimes he forgot what he’d had to save it from.

The hammer was driven against the head of the nail and he remembered.

He’d had to save it from him: the Devil, Satan, the Destroyer, the Son of Perdition, the Power of Darkness, the Beast, his torturer, his rapist, his everything. And in return Sam was trapped with him for eternity.

At least today he wasn’t raping him.

Not yet.

It was only a matter of time.

Blood, his blood, always served to get Lucifer aroused.

The final part was for Lucifer to use his powers to raise the cross, to have Sam hang from it, naked and vulnerable and bleeding,weak and agonized in his shame and suffering. All he was missing was a crown of thorns. The Devil stood before him, eyes dark, cruel smile on the lips that Sam knew all too well.

Sam was amazed he hadn’t lost his voice by the time he was done being crucified, but it was difficult to breathe like this, arms pulling at his chest, all of him in pain, suffering in an ironically biblical fashion, bleeding like Jesus on the cross, if only much, _much_ more sinful than the original son of God. He supposed it made sense. He’d prayed to God, and there had been no answer. Sam was no proper son to Him. He was impure, an Abomination, a freak.

Suffering was surely what God wanted for him if He had yet to save him, and suffer he would.

“Ha, I nailed you.”

If Sam had energy, and pain wasn’t taking hold of him in every part of his body, moving through him like a frisson, he would have rolled his eyes at the pun.

“You know, Sam, that gets me thinking.” Lucifer was standing in front of him now, blood splattered on him, hands stained a deep crimson, taking the form of Nick, to “make Sam more comfortable” as he’d once claimed. His arms were crossed, still holding the hammer. “We haven’t _connected_ in awhile, you know? You, me, a little _roughness_. I miss that. What do ya say, huh? I leave you up there for a few hours, and then, maybe…”

“No,” he heaved out, making sure his head was held up when he said it.

Lucifer smirked, rolling his eyes.

“Here it comes, the _no_. Come on, Sam, don’t be such a buzzkill. Look, I just nailed you to a cross. You don’t have to be such a downer about it. What, you sayin’ _no_ because I made you bleed? You gonna cry about it?”

In fact Sam felt as if he _was_ going to cry about it, throat aching, corners of his eyes pricking with tears, feeling a pinch at the bridge of his nose, but he tried to swallow the sensation in his throat away, and ignore the others. His injuries throbbed, pain beating anew.

“Hey, it’s you and me, bunk buddy,” he continued, gesturing with the bloodied hammer, making him flinch and grit his teeth. “You’re the one who put us here, so what do you get for saying _no_ , huh? You feel good about it, is that it? You get a sense of…” he paused to gasp dramatically, gesturing with his hands, “control?” he ventured. “Is that what wittle Sammy wants? He wants control? Well too bad, _freak_ , ‘cause this cell, this right here,” he gestured around with his finger, “this is mine. Yeah, it sucks. I hate it, Dad’s a son of a bitch, and all that, yada, yada, yada, but you know what it means? My rules. My rules, Sammy.

“And _you_ are mine. So don’t go saying no thinking that’ll get you out of it. You know what it’s gonna get you? Huh?”

When he didn’t respond, Lucifer tossed the hammer aside, the universe seemingly hating Sam and timing it perfectly with a close lightning strike that rattled his bones. He started, the jarring motion tearing at his injuries, and he groaned, throwing his head back, and clenching his jaw against a scream. Lucifer was in front of him now, powers raising him from the floor of the Cage, and he was pressed against him. He grabbed his jaw, eyes searing red, branding his soul.

“ _It gets you torn apart._ ” He caressed his cheek, hand traveling into his hair, making Sam shudder, and the Devil’s mouth was open, hungry, teeth bared as if he wanted to bite and devour. His voice was lowered when he went on, elaborating, “But not with weapons, or torture devices. No, no, Sammy. See, you’re too good for that. It gets you torn apart by me, with this body made by my Father, this body that yours has learned to both love and fear so _damn much_. I can be gentle — you know that — so very gentle, so good to you. I am sometimes, because you’re mine, but I can tear, and _ruin_ , make your flesh _hurt_ in such perfect ways. That’s what no gets you. So do you want to try again? Let’s try again.”

As if Lucifer wanted to make this more of a challenge for Sam, or wanted to make it obvious what they were discussing, or he simply hadn’t had enough of torturing him, he ran a hand down his body, blunt nails nearly scraping, fiery trails digging through Sam’s flesh, leaving him panting. And then he was gripping his cock, stroking hard.

“What do you say to a little quality time? Yeah, want me in you again?”

Shuddering, pain, pleasure, and terror eating at his blood, Sam spit in his face.

“No.”

As punishment, he squeezed hard and slammed his head back against the cross forcefully enough to make Sam see stars. He choked on an anguished cry.

“ _Fine,_ ” the Devil growled. “Then let’s play a game, baby. I give you a world in your head, control, everything I know you want, in exchange for what I want: little, personal favors.”

Sam struggled, but to no avail, hips maybe arching forward into his hand just a tad, which prompted him to start pumping him, and he growled.

“Yeah? You want to play that game?”

And that was all that was said about it. No rules were explained, no demands were made.

Nothing.

Lucifer stepped back, snapped his fingers, and the game began.

* * *

Sam wasn’t in the Cage. Wasn’t entrapped in dark stone of archaic design, wasn’t trapped with _him_. He was lying on a bed with a ratty old mattress, a dark gray sheet with tears in it covering him, still as naked as he had been on the cross, and there was a woman in his arms. Confused, a frown on his face, Sam looked down at the woman: dark brown hair, pale, creamy skin… He carefully lifted her hair from her face and immediately recognized the oval shape to it, the strong arch to the eyebrows, the well-defined nose, the lips that were always ready to throw an insult or a barb at him, that looked wild and wonderful when parted in pleasure, the cheekbones he liked to run his thumbs over. Ruby. Heart racing, pumping, pounding, _hurting_ , Sam froze, mind going blank. Panicking, he let her hair fall down and lifted up the sheet, which revealed that she was as naked as he was. His body, already doing as it did in the morning due to blood pressure changes, was reacting even more to seeing those perfect curves and nicely sized breasts that were partially covered by her arm as she lay on him, and now he was remembering what was in between her legs, so warm, and—

“What the fuck?” he whispered to himself.

She shifted on him, and he couldn’t ignore that he was hard, annoyingly so. In the Cage that was a cause for shame, and fear, but… was he in the Cage?

From what he could tell he was in the bedroom of what might’ve been some sort of hospital or sanitarium. It was rundown, looking like it’d been abandoned years ago, window cracked, paint on the walls faded and chipped, everything a bit dusty and worn. Maybe it was 2008 again, in his head, back when he’d been drinking demon blood. But he was sure he’d never stayed the night in a place like this.  
Just in case, Sam lifted a hand up to feel his hair.

Nope, not 2008. Hair wasn’t short enough for that.

So later, but how much later? Still before the Cage?

Perhaps it didn’t matter. Sam glanced around, trying to see through the dingy walls, tried to see to his prison. There were fallen apart buildings he though he could see through the window, a campus of some sort, but aside from that and the dreary sky, not much else. This was still the Cage, even if it didn’t look like it. He’d just changed it. Or this was in his head. He liked to do that sometimes — go in his head, mess around, take and violate what was his, drench it in violence and blood and unwanted sex.

This was part of the game.

Sam could smell Ruby, the sweetness of her, but not just that pleasant warmth that all women had, and her own, personal, scent, but the sinful delight of her blood. Distantly knowing it was wrong, but so used to violation, he rolled her onto her back and climbed on top of her, sucking and licking at her forearm, longing for a knife. He groaned in surprise but leaned into her, rubbing his erection against her hip, when she suddenly grabbed his hair and held him close.

“Morning, Sam,” she breathed.

Instantaneously, he was filled with anger at hearing her low voice, the surge of it hot and bubbling. The anger heightened to rage in a mere second, making pressure flood his pelvis till he ached, and he looked her in the eye to say, “No, we don’t do this.”

“Do what?” she asked, frowning, lifting herself up with her weight on her forearms.

“This,” he got out, feeling himself fall into some old routine within this world, even as want swelled in him. “This—this _thing_ where we pretend we’re a normal friggin’ couple with some normal apple pie life. I know why you’re in bed with me, you know why you’re in bed with me, so let’s cut the crap. Got it?”

She rolled her eyes, huffing out, “Jeez, Sammy, I just said good morning. You know, trying to be polite? Sorry I thought for a second that we could have a decent interaction.”

Ruby tried to roll out from under him, and he pinned her down, unable to help how he grinded against her. As she tended to, she challenged him, tilted her mouth up towards him, lips seeming ready for his, or even ready to smile. This made her feel alive, even as it tore him down inside.

“No. I don’t get decent interaction. Not with you. You used me.”

The almost-smile disappeared from her face. “I thought you were over that.”

“Demon-killing knife. _Now,_ ” he snarled.

His order was followed out immediately, Ruby twisting her body so she could grab it from the rickety bedside table. He was kneeling in between her legs, one hand eagerly caressing her bare stomach, when she handed it to him. He positioned himself lower, Ruby stroking his arm pleadingly, as he sliced into her vertically two inches above her navel. Ruby’s pained, yet pleased, cry met his ears, singing through his veins when the first trickle of blood ran out on her pale skin, and he growled as he cut deeper, farther. Ruby’s nails dug into his wrist now, body arching away from his, but a yes was leaving her. The need in him undeniable now, he licked the knife before tossing it aside, and grasped her hips, ready to devour.

The hair on the back of his neck stood on end, a warning. This wasn’t real. None of it was. The world was a fallacy, a game, and it could all fade in moments.

That was why he had to indulge himself.

The time for being hesitant would be later. Not when she smelled so good, not when she was right here for him, not when some part of him knew this could all go away. Sam was desperate. A moan left him as soon as his tongue touched the liquid heat of her, lapping along the wound, sucking.

His eyes rolled back in his head as he drank, the darkness turning scarlet, everything in him hot and high, body tingling and becoming more than aroused, and she urged him on, hands running through his hair, body tilting up to him, legs wrapping about his shoulders, talking to him softly.

The blood was power, and pure power was better than any kind of arousal. It settled in him like arousal, and while Sam held her to him with one arm, he ended up touching himself with his other hand, getting off to taking from her.

He came away, lips bloody, panting, Ruby using her legs to maneuver his head lower, her mind on other matters now as well.

He remembered his first time with Ruby. Pushing her away, saying _don’t_ , not quite wanting it.

But he was in control now.

Control.

This was what Lucifer was supposedly giving him with this world in his head. Sam had yet to figure it out, but it was difficult to do so when all his body was urging him to do was fuck, the ache in him so strong he didn’t know shame or fear, the blood driving out everything except for ecstatic power.

Sam obliged for a few minutes, getting her right to the edge, loving her taste even though it wasn’t her blood, refraining from pleasuring himself so he could hold her legs open. God, Sam loved how she whined for him.

Was this what power felt like?

He wanted it _all_.

Wanted it till he was more than high, till every cell in his body was bursting and screeching with the thrill of power, control.

He didn’t want what Lucifer gave him every day in the Cage, didn’t want what his first time with Ruby had been like, didn’t want what his entire life beat him down with.

Sam wanted _this_.

He climbed up her body, nipping at her lips and then breathed, words desperate and gravelly with his burning arousal, “You’re going to let me fuck you, and you’re going to enjoy it.”

“Oh, fuck yes, Sam.”

Their mouths were together before she’d barely finished his name, and when they came apart he rolled her onto her stomach and got to work.

The beauty of Ruby being a demon was that her body could handle things a human woman’s could not. Sam entered her swiftly, swollen with need, feeling her hot and wet around him, and held his arm against her neck, restricting her airflow. A growl ripped its way from his chest as he buried himself deep, body burning and throbbing with immense pleasure at their joining. With a human he knew to take his time, but with Ruby he knew she could handle it. He went at her rough and hard, enjoying the way she arched against him, skin warm and pleasantly soft.

She still managed to talk to him with his arm about her neck, and he snarled for her to be quiet. Immediately she listened, and oh god, to have her body, just his.

Sam hated Ruby. He’d loved her. He had. He really fucking had, and maybe some part of him still did. And she’d used him, manipulated him, gotten him to resurrect the being who had tried to destroy the world, who had killed so many, including Castiel and Bobby, who had hurt Dean, and who had become his torturer and rapist. Lucifer wasn’t here, and Sam was powerless against him. But Ruby _was_ here, willing, so now Sam went at her as he never had with anyone before, not caring if he was hurting her. If he was, she wasn’t saying anything, so it didn’t really matter to him. Besides, she was acting as though she was enjoying it, body still pressed back against his, still wet and pleading, and clenching rhythmically around him with her orgasm every once in awhile, cries letting loose.

Oh, how he wanted to hate her, wanted her blood in him to turn black and consume him, so he would feel nothing about killing her, and he could just tighten his hold just a bit more, keep going till her heart stopped...

But god, he couldn’t do that, even if such a thing could kill a demon.

He was better than that.

Wasn’t he?

Sam left her, breathing hard, and she fell down to the bed, turning onto her side, head tilting towards him. Her eyes were dark, mouth open as she sucked in heaving breaths. Sam pushed her legs aside to enter her again, groaning from feeling her slick around him, pleasure cascading like liquid fire in his cock through to his gut. Ruby looked as though she wanted to say something, mouth opening wider, but only a cry left her, no words coming out, and he didn’t know why that was.

He’d told her to be quiet, but that was all.

It wasn’t like Ruby to listen to him to such a degree. She liked battling him, liked getting him on edge.

Sam pushed it to the back of his mind, feeling his climax coming on. To make himself feel better about it, he pressed his lips to hers, kissing her as he finished, jolts of satisfaction running through him, bliss bursting in his brain to join the red that already consumed him.

There wasn’t a worry about finishing in her. This wasn’t real.

But it was real enough to feel amazing as her insides hugged him, as if begging for more of him, more of his cum, and Sam cried out into her mouth, biting her bottom lip till he tasted blood.

He collapsed beside her, sweating, chest and face all red, pulling her close with one arm. Ruby’s silence was deafening, discomforting tingles bursting in his body. He thought of letting it last as he came down from his climax and she from hers, but it was too much.

“What did I do wrong?” he asked. “You enjoyed that, didn’t you?” Sam didn’t even know why he cared.

No, he cared because he didn’t want to be _him_.

But maybe he was…

He’d taken her for power. Wasn’t that what Lucifer did to him?

No. He’d gotten her consent, hadn’t he?

Sam tried to think back on it, but he couldn’t remember.

Now he found that he couldn’t breathe.

Ruby was facing him now, and she nodded.

“Come on, talk,” he pleaded.

“You told me to enjoy it, and I did,” she told him.

Sam frowned at her odd phrasing.

“That’s it? No, _hey, Sam, do this next time,_ or, _hey, I didn’t exactly like when you did this?_ ”

“Since when do you care about all that with me? You drink my blood, we fuck, we fight, we do it again. And despite the shithole the world’s turned into I stick around, and I do it with him too.”

He opened his mouth to ask what she meant, but then memories flooded his head, false ones. They had to be, or perhaps some of them were.

Saying _yes_ in Detroit, the Devil taking him.

Dean resisting Michael until he faded out of Sam’s life, and the angels had seemed to have left Heaven and Earth, letting the Apocalypse reign. Humans had died in droves: storms, natural disasters, unholy acts, the Croatoan virus, demon attacks, their own violence against each other.

God was nowhere to be found, the only true power remaining that of the fallen archangel who ruled triumphantly over the blasted out waste that remained.

And Sam was...

Sam looked down at himself, confused.

He was still possessed.

How…?

And how was Ruby…?

“He’s messing with your head again, isn’t he?” Ruby asked, cupping his face in one hand, making him look at her. “Look, Lucifer let you out for a bit, let you have control of your body, so let’s just enjoy it, okay?”

“He… what? You’re dead.”

“He wanted to make you happy, so he brought me back,” she sighed. Sam just stared, so she went on, “This is maybe the… twenty-sixth? Yeah, twenty-sixth time I’ve had to explain it to you. Once in awhile when he lets you out, you don’t seem to remember everything.”

No.

_No, no, no, no, no._

It couldn’t be. That couldn’t be right.

_Why would he…?_

_I’m not…_

_No, I’m not…_

_I’m not… I’m not… I’m not…_

_Hello?_ Sam questioned in his head, feeling empty, dreading an answer.

None came.

Was this real?

Was the Cage fake and just the Devil playing in his head?

Was the Cage the real game, and this was his life, the Apocalypse?

Sam drew away from her, sitting up, staring hard at his shaking hands. There’d been nails in his wrists earlier, in another place. He was so sure of it, pain blooming in him, living in him, taking root like it would never leave, but now it wasn’t there.

Ruby took his left hand in both of hers, caressing.

“He’s gonna come back. He tends to at night. I think he likes a turn with me.”

“Lucifer likes a turn with you,” Sam stated, voice dead, all of him numb and full and empty at the same time as he tried to process.

He was in the Cage. He was!

But did he even want to be?

Did he want this?

Did he want any of it?

“He says he lets you feel it, that it makes you mad.” She kissed his knuckles. “It’s okay. I’m a big girl, Sam. I can handle myself. But he… I think you forgot… He leaves you with something.”

“What?” he asked, dread rotting in his stomach, making him unable to look at her, just stare at the room, but not even take in the surroundings. There was a buzzing sound in his ears, the world feeling fuzzy.

“A power. I don’t know why, but… Sam, you can control people with your voice.”

“What?” he asked again, more focused, turning to face her.

“You command someone to do something, they do it.”

His stomach turned, everything in him dropping, a shudder running through him.

Control.

Lucifer had said he was going to give him control.

That’s exactly what he’d done.

“Oh god, Ruby, are you saying…?” Sam trailed off, already realizing what had happened, what he’d said. _You’re going to let me fuck you, and you’re going to enjoy it._ That wasn’t consent. He’d… He’d… Oh _god_.

“Sam, it’s okay. Not the first time you’ve done it, Lucifer’s done it, it’s happened in Hell. Kind of the norm for demons, you know?”

Sam just about collapsed out of the bed in his attempt to get away from her so he couldn’t hurt her again. Maybe he cared, maybe he didn’t, but he knew he didn’t want to be like the Devil, didn’t want to hurt someone in that way, because oh god, the very thought of it—

“R-Ruby. Bathroom.”

She directed him to it, and held himself up with the wall as he lurched to it, barely getting to the old toilet before he was puking, stomach aching fiercely, head pounding. It was all blood, and he lamented it, a sob breaking free, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes.

He’d done it before?

No, no, he couldn’t have.

He wouldn’t have done that. He wasn’t like that.

No, this wasn’t real, this wasn’t real, this wasn’t real.

But, god, he didn’t want the Cage to be real either.

Sam’s body heaved, saliva dripping from his mouth, dry heaving now, having gotten all the blood out of his stomach on the first go.

He wanted to scream, but he held it in and stood, washed his face in the cracked, grimy sink. The mirror above it had glass missing from the top right corner, and lines ran out from the point like reaching spiderwebs. Sam met his bloodshot gaze in the mirror. He looked older than when he had fallen into the Cage, hair longer, face not as clean-shaven, but Lucifer seemed to be taking more than good care of his body.

Past the hazel that he knew so well, that he hated, there was an emptiness, a loneliness, and he knew what he had to do.

Sam had to find Dean.

* * *

Sam kept his plan to himself, not even sure how he would accomplish it, or if Dean was even _alive_. If he was alive, where was he on a planet that was dead?

But no, Sam couldn’t entertain the idea that his brother was dead. If he was dead, what would he do? Be left as this? Lucifer’s pet? Ruby’s…? Sam couldn’t finish the thought to what he was. He knew what he was, what he’d done that morning even if she didn’t seem to care. Oh god.

He barely even remembered what had happened once he left the bathroom, everything a blur. He tried to keep his tongue behind his teeth, not speaking, not wanting to use his power, and when he did speak he was careful about his words. He was sitting at the head of a weathered laminate table in what had been a communal kitchen. Many of the drawers in the kitchen had been taken out, cabinets left open. There was a sink in the room, but Sam doubted it would work. Over by the far wall were ripped up drawings, old and crinkled.

Ruby was at his side, running a hand over his wrist. How had he gotten dressed? Had she helped him into the suit? Why the hell was he wearing it? He vaguely remembered an explanation from Ruby that Lucifer liked the white, liked it on him, and she was in all black, and leather, tight pants that made him think of all the things her body could do for his.

_No, Sam. Get your head of the gutter._

Memories of that morning washed over him, and he clenched his hands into fists, toes curling in the shoes he wore, jaw clenching.

_I’m a…_

_No._

_NO._

Maybe he could have more blood, fix this. Now the euphoric power of it was waning, and he was just floating on the dissociation of it, lost. Sam was lost in all of this, not sure of what was real. Ruby’s hand on him felt real, fingers warm, soft, pleasant, but the inside of him was numb and roiling all at once. There was a tingling in him, and he knew it was from the blood, but after discovering his power and what he’d done it no longer felt pleasant. Everything was too much and not enough.

There was a can of… _something_ in front of him (was it pudding? really?), Ruby insisting he needed to eat while Lucifer left his body alone, that he was under the rules of humanity once more. Lucifer hadn’t really explained it to her, but Sam knew Lucifer enough to guess at it.

It was to remind him of his humanity, to remind him of the shitshow that life his was, so that when he took control once more he could thank him, praise him. Sam couldn’t remember anything of his possession in this world, but he wondered how that was working out for him. Sam couldn’t imagine it was going very well, even after… How long had it been?

He abandoned the pudding, pushing it aside without even trying a mouthful. It was in an industrial sized can anyway and looked as if it’d been open for a few days, making Sam question who else had been needing to eat.

“Ruby, what year is it?”

“2014.”

“And I’ve been possessed since…?”

“2009.”

“And what do we — you and I — what do we do? Or what does he do?”

She shrugged. “He revels in it, I guess. Some days he just wants to fuck, other days he wants blood, or you do. He’s trying to destroy the humans though, has other demons as servants, kills them when it suits him, drinks from them when it suits him, deploys them in battle, and he’s been using the Croats.” Sam frowned, and she came forward, hand reaching out, and Sam pulled away, sickened that she was _okay_ with him, with _this_. “It’s really bad this time, huh? You don’t remember anything?”

“I remember a bit,” he shot back.

Her hand still found his face, and Sam closed his eyes, letting her palm rest against his cheek, licking his lips, hating her, hating Lucifer, hating this, not knowing his life anymore.

Part of him wanted to go back to his crucifixion. That, he thought he understood. That was the Cage. But if he had never been…

“Don’t touch me,” he murmured.

Immediately, her hand drew away, and she lowered her head, hiding her face from him.

“The Croats — the people infected with the Croatoan virus,” she went on, drawing back to the earlier discussion. “He uses them against the humans, has a heavy area of infected around here as a defense, but the other demons should keep you safe enough, even when we move locations. Humans come, mess with the Croats sometimes. Things get violent. Every once in awhile he takes some humans, has his fun with them. I think he wants…” she trailed off, clearly not very willing to give him the information.

“Ruby, what? What does he want?”

She faced him now, eyes dark, haunted, and she was struggling with herself. Perhaps a question was something that could be resisted. It wasn’t commanding enough. Sam shifted forward.

“Ruby, tell me. What does he want?”

The words tumbled from her mouth, “I think he wants Dean.”

“Dean’s alive?”

She nodded.

Alive.

_Oh, thank god._

Or was there even a god to thank?

Sam’s thoughts grew dark and spiraling and he couldn’t breathe, so he went back to that crimson numbness. His chest rose when he drew in a breath.

“He’s alive, and— Where is he? What’s he doing?”

“Sam, he doesn’t know you’re still… you.”

“But I could find him,” he argued. “I could find him, bring him here, and show him I’m—”

“He wants to kill you!”

Immediately he was on his feet, shoving the chair back so quickly that it fell, and Ruby pushed her chair back so she was away from him.

“Maybe he should!” Sam shouted. “What have I been doing for five years, huh? Just been—been raping you?”

“Sam, it’s not like that!”

“Yeah, it’s not, is it? Do I even let you say yes? Or is it just like earlier where I told you to let it happen and told you to like it. How many times, huh? And he rapes you too. You told me he does. And he’s been raping me, in my head! And when he’s not doing that he’s tearing me apart. He wants me to be _happy?_ ” Sam laughed, turning around at that, taking in his surroundings, the dark, dilapidated room, the peeling paint, the cracked, grimy windows that showed a small fenced in garden where there were roses blooming amongst detritus and rotting earth. “Well, he’s doing a great job at that!” Ruby came forward, close, but not touching, and he glared down. “Oh, and yeah, great, now you can’t touch me because I said so. I don’t even know if I want you to, isn’t that great? But why should I have a say in what you do? Fine, fucking touch me, if you want.”

Her hands rested on his chest now, pulling at his clothes.

“Sam, listen to me! This is all we have. He lied to me, too, okay? He told me he’d take care of demons, that he’d remake the world for us, but no, he didn’t! He didn’t. We’re just his slaves. He doesn’t give a damn about us.” She reached up, taking hold of his face, Sam snarling at her, and he grabbed her wrists, pushing her back against the wall. “But Sam, we have each other! I don’t care what you do to me. You don’t mean it. You’re not him. I loved him. I did. I did, is that what you want to hear? That’s why I hurt you. But I’m not trying to hurt you now. Please, just forget Dean, just let us enjoy this. I don’t know when he’s gonna come back, when he’ll want control again.”

There was that word: control.

Sam felt tears tracking down his cheeks, mind on fire from it all, and he fell to his knees, pulling Ruby against him on instinct. She fell to her knees now as well, kissing his forehead, and then bringing her lips to his, kissing him hard.

He pulled her up into his lap, and she, too, was crying.

God, what were they doing? Were they just his playthings, his to use and torment?

Was Lucifer the only god left?

Or was this the game?

Did Sam get to pick and choose who to control, and in what way? Did he get to feel power for himself? Did he get to remake this world in his image, become a god?

Or was he just a toy?

Maybe all gods started as someone else’s toys.

Sam eventually pulled away, spit connecting them for a couple of seconds, and he was breathing hard. “Ruby, I have control now, _right now_ , and I’m gonna find Dean.”

She shook her head. “Sam—”

“No. My brother’s alive, and I’m gonna find him. We’re gonna fix this. Five years. Five years and I’ve done nothing, is that right?”

A nod.

“Well, I’m sick of being Satan’s bitch.”


	2. Non Sum Qualis Eram

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I Am Not Such As I Was_
> 
> Another one of my stories I'm hitting with an update.

There was a knocking that awoke Dean from his all-encompassing sleep. He groaned, not wanting to get up. The warm body beside him shifted, filling Dean with half-heated memories of the night before. Dean over Castiel, legs spread as he took his thick cock. The shaking of the bed and banging against the wall had been incessant, loud, but Dean, with embarrassment, had been louder. Castiel was just too good, even if his friend—boyfriend—whatever the hell he was — thought otherwise.

“Dean,” Castiel rasped out, voice filled with layered exhaustion.

“ _Uuunnnggghhh…_ ” Dean forced out.

He wanted to _sleep_ , and if he couldn’t do that there were much more enjoyable things he could do in a bed. When it came to Cas, Dean had an eager mouth.

He’d sucked him last night, listening to his moans, and then—

The knocking came again.

“Chief!”

Dean lifted his head up, and then rolled over, exclaiming, “Alright, alright! I’m coming.” He forced aside his arousal, which was unpleasant. Couldn’t he have something good to start his day with?

Boots thumped away off the porch, leaving Dean be for now, giving him the time he needed to get himself ready to face the day.

God, what would the problem be today? It was always something. They were just barely scraping by to survive, him and his people at Camp Chitaqua. Life wasn’t something any of them seemed to look forward to anymore, yet for some reason they kept going. Maybe it was all they knew how to do.

Dean pulled himself out of bed, and started slipping on his clothes from the day before. They were dirty, hadn’t been washed in a few days. He’d still have to wait. Camp Chitaqua had a communal laundry day, and it was only one day a week so as to not waste water. At least it didn’t have to be rationed as much as their food, which was surely running out by now just before the harvest came in. It’d be a hard winter. Dean would have to send out more scavenging parties, and hunters too.

When he was just about finished getting dressed and had his gun holstered to his thigh he leaned over and whacked Castiel’s arm.

“Get up,” he said.

Dean was slipping an arm into his army green jacket now. And he finished shrugging it on. Castiel didn’t move.

“Five more minutes,” he pleaded.

“Come on, angel.”

“Don’t call me that,” Castiel growled, seeming more awake now.

Dean just paused, saying nothing, and he flipped his collar up. There was grief inside Cas. Sometimes Dean would poke at it, not truly meaning to. He and Castiel had grown so close since Detroit, but still not quite close enough. Castiel liked to have his drugs and orgies, and Dean got along with a few women in the camp quite well. And even after fights about Castiel’s drug addiction, about everything, anything, they would eventually come back to each other.

The night before had been one of those nights.

Dean wondered how long it would last.

“Well, people need to see you up and about,” Dean told him.

Castiel rolled over onto his back, but dramatically laid an arm across his eyes, as if trying to block out the light.

“Why?”

“Because you, you give people hope. Chuck, too.”

“I’m nothing, Dean,” he argued. “And Chuck’s nothing now too, with the angels gone, with God…” He paused, swallowing roughly.

Then eventually he sighed and sat up, and he scrambled for the pill bottle he’d left on Dean’s bedside table.

An irritated growl rose from Dean’s chest, but he let him be for now. Rome wasn’t built in a day, and saving Castiel surely wouldn’t be done so quickly either. But Dean was resolved to save him. He just had to, after all the times he’d saved him, after he’d raised him from perdition.

The knocking came again.

“Yeah, be right there!”

Dean pat Cas on the shoulder, leaving behind his naked form and the messy sheets as he climbed down the ladder. He dropped to the dusty wooden floor, and then he went and left the cabin. It was a dreary day, the sky promising rain later, and the sun was low in the sky. Still early. But the sun wouldn’t get very high as it was. They were in the early days of fall, but it was fall just the same. It’d be getting cold soon, and people would start getting antsy to keep warm. Either they’d band closer together as they tended to, or Dean would have to keep them from tearing at each other. But that was another problem. Today he was supposed to go out into a quarantine zone. The camp doctor had requested a live Croat. It was dangerous as shit, but she was convinced she could start finding a cure.

Dean didn’t believe it.

Still, he was going to kill two birds with one stone. He needed a demon, so he was going to get one. But capturing the enemy had gotten very hard to accomplish. Most things were hard to accomplish these days.

There was no hope, yet still they kept going.

Jackson, one of the guard, was on the porch, waiting for Dean. His eyes were wide, urgent, and he fingered the gun in the holster at his hip.

Dean put a hand on his arm, a silent command for him to steady himself.

The guard did so, and then they started walking.

“So what’s going on?” Dean asked.

“Scouts came back fifteen minutes ago.”

“Croats?” Dean asked.

“Military.”

“Fuck,” he swore. “How far out?”

“Scouts had to rush back here, but from over the ridge to the west they probably saw out about twenty miles. I’d say we have an hour, maybe more, maybe less.”

Though it was early the camp was already starting to bustle, the survivors of the Apocalypse going about chores, and their assigned jobs, all with weapons close at hand. The farmers would be going out to the fields, tending to the crop, and there was at least one engineer and one mechanic in the camp. Technology wasn’t something they had since the cell towers had been down for about five years now, but they worked on weapons, vehicles, communications. Chuck, the former Prophet of the Lord, was walking about with his clipboard that seemed glued to his hand.

Where there wasn’t lifeless dirt, there was overgrown grass, weeds. Nature was trying to creep in on them. Dean had decided to let it. Easier to hide that way.

He stopped by a large bale of water that they used for the day’s supply, taken from the river nearby by workers before the sun had risen. And he gazed out, watching his people. They were slumped over in their work, forlorn, faces dirtied.

“Maybe less?” he questioned.

Jackson just started mumbling, and raised his hand, but lowered it, seemingly resisting the urge to run it through his cropped black hair. Dean cut him off, “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.”

Dean left Jackson behind, shaking his head. There was a hint of red in his vision, anger brewing. What the fuck did the U.S. army want with his camp?

It took a couple of minutes to round up the various heads of the camp, but Castiel, now high, was ready to go. Risa was glaring at him, and Dean did his best to ignore her tense stare, and the way she stroked the barrel of her assault rifle. Chuck was there as well. They had settled down in the dining room in his cabin. Cas had his feet up on the table, eyes glazed and almost shining, just not caring. Risa refused to sit down, but Chuck had taken a seat as well. Dean stood, after years of this, knowing that a leader had to be above his people, even those he trusted.

Jackson had been called into the meeting as well.

The cabin was still intact, but certain parts of it were broken, unusable, falling apart. The dining room was just dingy, dirty, old, and Dean didn’t have the time or will to fix it up now that he had taken it over. Life in the Apocalypse didn’t give you time to make things nice.

It just took and it took and it took.

A map was spread out over the table, and Dean said, “Alright, Jackson, show us where the scouts saw the grunts coming in.

He pointed at a section west of the camp. It wasn’t a straight line towards them, so there was the slight chance that they would go around.

But still, they were too close to comfort. And the camp was well outside a quarantine zone last time Dean had checked. They were always updating their data, mapping the spread of the Croatoan virus, where the Croats lived.

Camp Chitaqua was as safe as could be.

At least, for now.

And the military wasn’t necessarily an enemy, but they weren’t kind either. It was the government and the military that had destroyed cities, killed innocent civilians in an attempt to stop the spread of the Croatoan virus.

What a load of good that did them.

The few dealings Dean had had with what was left of the army were rough, abrasive. They didn’t like that Dean was a leader and had his own people with weapons. Maybe the general had gotten worried, had heard that the Camp Chitaqua population had taken in more survivors recently.

But an uprising was the last thing to fear in this hellhole.

Maybe it was just an inspection. Sometimes the army did that, checked on survivors. They didn’t help much. It was more of an excuse to show their power, to make them feel better in a world where they didn’t have control.

“Alright, so we sound the alarm?” Castiel asked.

Dean shook his head. “No, nothing big and loud. I don’t want to freak our people out. It’s the last thing they need. But we certainly need to be ready.”

He went over to a desk and came back over with another map, laying it out on the table. The map was of Camp Chitaqua, written over in Dean’s own scratchy handwriting, where he’d labeled various buildings, the fields, defenses.

“Alright,” he began, pointing out various places where fences had been erected and walls had been hastily build, “we need two guards on each position here, west. And I know the army looks like they’re coming from north-west, but those bastards are slippery, so we’ll set up guards on the northern and southern borders of the camp. This isn’t an attack, but we have to be prepared. They sure ain’t friendly.”

“And what of everyone else?” Risa asked. “The people who don’t fight?”

“Round ‘em up, tell ‘em to get inside.”

They all nodded.

“Chuck, weapons,” he demanded.

Chuck took out that stupid clipboard of his (at least it kept him organized).

“We still have a store of guns, pistols, rifles, a few shotguns. Artillery’s running low, but Frey’s working on it with Morgan.”

“And distribution?”

“Uh…” he flipped through pages. “Each of our people has at least one weapon.”

“Okay, good. But tell them to hide them, and lock up the weapons store. And Cas, you get the food locked up. If there’s any chance that this could be a raid, I don’t want to take it. With winter coming in a few weeks we need everything we can get. And call back the hunters and farmers. I don’t want our people wandering about.”

Castiel leaned forward over the map, lips pursed, frowning.

“Maybe they know about Dr. Fisher, what she’s trying to do.”

Dean gave Jackson a wary look, and then shot a warning glance at Castiel.

“Dr. Fisher’s got her own work, and we all sure as hell know she ain’t one for talking,” he said. Mostly everyone in the room knew what she was trying to do, but Jackson didn’t. Dean wished he’d dismissed him earlier. “Alright, let’s go, let’s get to work.”

With that everyone broke, and they headed out, save for Castiel, who was still staring at the map.

“Cas, what is it?” Dean asked, sitting on the table beside him. Castiel casually put a hand to Dean’s thigh, stroking it as he thought. Dean shifted closer at the pleasant sensation, clenched his jaw against the pleased humming noise that wanted to leave him.

“Maybe the virus is spreading.”

“Our reports say we’re safe.”

“Okay, then if not the virus, what about the demons?”

Dean shook his head. “Can’t be. Everyone here’s charmed or tatted.”

“But is the army?”

That dropped a heavy stone into Dean’s stomach, and ripples of dread spread out as it sunk to the bottom.

“Can’t be,” he said. “It’s been five years. If they’re still here, they must know what they’re doing.”

Castiel gave Dean a smile of appraisal. “Not as well as you.”

Dean raised his eyebrows, understanding what kind of mood Castiel was in.

“Oh, you’re just fishing for me to kiss you or something.”

Castiel shrugged. “You do have a nice mouth.”

“Well, we can do all that later. Right now we got work to do.”

“And what will you be doing?” Castiel asked, standing, running his hands over Dean’s thighs. 

Dean breathed deeply as the former angel closed in on his personal space. Dean wanted to lean in, but he wasn’t sure he liked Castiel when he was like this. High. It had to have a hand in his decisions, including his decisions to act like he loved Dean.

“I’m gonna take a jeep out, inspect the western wall.” Dean sighed. “God, this wasn’t what I had planned for today.”

“Nothing you can do,” Castiel said.

Dean agreed, “Nothing I can do.”

Castiel stole a kiss, his lips wet and warm, and then Dean pushed him aside, getting off the table.

“Work. Now.”

“Yes, sir.”

That was when Dean’s stomach rumbled with hunger.

God, all this before breakfast.

* * *

Bolstering up the defenses took longer than Dean wanted it to, and his inspection had led to some guard changes. He put Jackson at the head of the entrance to the camp, trusting him with such a weighty job. But the guy he’d replaced, not so much. Dean had him go to the south. The army was in a north-west line, so the south was the least likely place they would head to.

Somewhere in between all that he’d gotten a ladle-full of water, and he’d eaten something for breakfast. Dean couldn’t even say what he’d eaten. It’d just been some sort of mashed vegetables with broth. God, he wanted fries, chips. But the days of all that, of taking from restaurants and supermarkets, of hoarding, was gone. Everything had been eaten or it’d gone bad.

Dean’s people were quiet, apprehensive, but he walked about, making sure he was in plain view. He needed to let them see that he was in charge, that they were safe with him, and he wasn’t afraid.

Hell, he was afraid. He was afraid every day. And every day was a depressing drag, ever since Detroit. There’d be spikes of adrenaline, anger, hurt, but there was just a heavy, dark cloud hanging over him, like the grime that had taken over the rest of civilization.

The army came, the tank rolling in, a lieutenant at the head of the line in a field uniform and vest armor. And Dean’s members on the guard that had met them were in teams on either side. Good, they knew this might not just be a casual visit.

Dean met them, weapon holstered. He wanted to give the idea that they were friendly — which they were if things went smoothly — but he wasn’t about to show that he was weak. A lot of the people left were cockroaches. They buried under refuse, they did all they could for themselves. And if you were weak, then too bad. They’d get you.

“What can I do for you, Lieutenant?” Dean asked, copying his stance as he came forward, hands clasped behind his back, back straight, chin held high.

The lieutenant glanced around, and his other men came. There could be forty-four men to a platoon. Dean counted a mere sixteen. They were dirtied, bloodied, weary, which put him on edge. Desperate people did crazy things sometimes.

“Dean Winchester, is it?”

“Yes, sir,” he said, hating that he had to show deference. This was his territory, not some bastard’s who’d probably joined the military because he thought shooting people in the head was cool.

Dean knew, obviously, that not all military personnel were like that. A spare few were. But the ones that had survived… maybe they had it in them.

“Mr. Winchester—”

“Chief,” Dean corrected.

The lieutenant paused, gaping at him.

“What?”

“Chief, sir,” he responded. “I lead this camp, and I’m its chief. I think it’s only fair if you call me my rank if I call you yours… Lieutenant.”

He cleared his throat. “Yes.”

The lieutenant was looking around, taking everything in. Taking it in too much.

“Look, my men and I, we went through a quarantine zone, tried clearing it out. Things got rough. Lost over half my platoon. What’s left— well, you can see for yourself. We’re not doing good.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Dean kept his voice calm, steady, even as he bristled inside.

“You’re the only settlement we could make it to. Two men died on the way here.” Dean nodded, showing reverence. “We were wondering if you could shelter us for a couple nights, just until we get back on our feet and can move on down south.”

Dean contemplated him for a bit. The lieutenant was sizing him up.

“I gotta be honest, Lieutenant…”

“Rogers,” he provided.

“Rogers,” Dean went on. “Lieutenant Rogers, it’s getting colder. Growing season’s about done, animals are going into hiding. Food stores are gonna get bare.”

“I understand.”

“Then what can you give me for taking resources from my people?”

“Protection.”

Dean gave a smirk, and put a hand on his pistol, and then eyed all the guards with guns.

“I think we’re good.”

“Chief, I’m making this as a request, but I can turn it into an order.”

“Then it was never a request in the first place,” Dean told him.

They stared at each other, eyes cold.

“Three nights,” Dean eventually said after some thought. “Our people will be at half-rations, yours too. We got a doctor in the camp. Why you don’t you settle in and get your injured men to her? Come with me, I can show you where you’ll be staying.”

Dean put his hand out, palm flat and moved his arm down, a gesture to his guards to be at ease. After a few tense seconds they complied.

“Tank stays out of my camp,” Dean ordered to the lieutenant as he started marching off, expecting the man to follow him. “Keep it on the outskirts, or you’re gone.”

“Respectfully, sir, if we have a tank, I think you’d be the ones who would be gone if it came to anything unpleasant.”

Dean bit back a reply, but raised his arm, whistled, and people broke up, coming from their houses, knowing they were safe for now. Dean wouldn’t let them be in any danger.

They surrounded him, and he said, “Alright, this here is Lieutenant Rogers. We’ll be hosting his platoon for a few nights. I need _all of you_ to be on your best behavior. We’re at half-rations for now.”

Complaining broke out, and Dean repeated, voice steel, “ _Half-rations._ ”

The murmuring and complaints stopped.

“That’ll be all. Now back to work,” Dean told them.

They immediately listened, although they shuffled with discontent.

Dean could understand. Trauma was hard, the scary shit was hard, but when you got right down to it, nothing was as hard as being hungry, so hungry that your stomach felt like it was trying to eat itself and that you’d do anything to get food. Your whole world became that.

Half-rations for a few days wouldn’t bring them to that, but the rations were already small, so there’d be a lot of people struggling. Dean wouldn’t be surprised if Dr. Fisher ended up having patients soon complaining of symptoms of hypotension, and similar effects to hypoglycemia.

Dean showed the lieutenant where he’d be staying, up in a house by the barn. The barn usually housed their vehicles, but Dean could have them moved out and covered with tarp to make room. The men would stay in the barn.

Once they settled in, Dean gave Risa the job of watching them, but discreetly. He didn’t need trouble, and showing that he didn’t trust them could cause that.

Dean was making his way back up to his cabin when Castiel joined him at his side.

“So, the day’s mission?” he asked.

Dean went inside his cabin, immediately going to the room below the loft where he kept his weapons. He started arming up, and Castiel had followed him. The not-angel picked at his dirtied and baggy clothing, surely a tick from whatever he’d taken.

Dean loaded his gun, grabbed the demon-killing knife and held it up in the weak light to inspect its sharpness. It needed some sharpening, so he got out a whetstone and took a seat on a storage chest.

“Gonna find a demon today. And the doc needs a Croat.”

“Dean, you can’t keep going out.”

“I can and I will.”

“There’ll be a time when you don’t come back.”

The steel scraped against the stone, sparks glittering in the dim shadows. Castiel drew closer, and Dean inhaled deeply with content at his sturdy presence. But even then, there was that dissonance. Did Cas not realize Dean had to do this?

“And maybe that’s true,” Dean relented. But then he went on to argue, “But that doesn’t mean I just sit behind and let the world go to crap. We know the demons are moving the Colt. If we get one, torture him—”

Castiel started laughing, interrupting Dean.

You think that’s funny?

Castiel let out a long exhale, eyes looking skyward, a loopy smile on his face. He settled down on the chest with Dean.

“Years ago I needed you to torture Alistair, and you fought me. And now, you just go do it, huh? Just torture.”

“Not like you’re volunteering.”

Castiel chuckled.

Dean rolled his eyes in annoyance, and perhaps he ran the knife over the whetstone with too much force that time, a quiet screech sounding off.

“I just wish this wasn’t you, Dean,” Castiel admitted.

He held the knife up now, studying the blade, finding it adequate.

“Well, I don’t really have a choice about that, do I?”

“God wanted us to think we had choices, free will,” Castiel said. “You had me believing it for so long. But we’re really just this, aren’t we? The traumatized, pathetic survivors of the Apocalypse.”

“Who are you calling pathetic?” Dean challenged.

Castiel relented with a sigh.

“Let me go with you,” he urged.

“No, I’m taking Colby and Springer.”

“Dean, you know you need more than three people if you’re going into a quarantined area.”

“We don’t have to go into quarantine, at least not right away. There’s a horde of demons out farther south, but not in the quarantine zone. My guess is the army can’t clear ‘em. So we’ll head there. And if we’re lucky, maybe a Croat broke through. Would sure as hell make our job easier.”

Dean got up, grabbed his bag he’d packed for the mission, and Castiel still went with him. God, Dean wasn’t going to be able to get rid of him. But he would still try, if only to keep him safe.

“You know the demons and Croats are equally dangerous,” Cas argued.

Dean stopped when he got to the bottom of the steps on his cabin, and Castiel stood at the top. An angel, above him, like it was supposed to be, but the angels were gone, Castiel’s Grace had waned. His wings had just dissipated, and with it, Dean was sure half of him had gone too.

“Fine, you want to come, then you better not take anymore pills or sniff any funny powders till we leave. Got that?”

Castiel nodded.

As Dean spoke, Chuck had been walking by, and Dean instructed, pointing back to Cas, “Keep an eye on him. Make sure he doesn’t take anything.”

“Got it, boss.”

“We roll out in fifteen,” Dean informed Cas.

And then he went to get Colby and Springer.

Both were just about ready to go, and they were packing up the jeep.

“We need a cover on this,” Dean said, looking up at the sky. The clouds had only darkened. “Rain’s coming.”

His orders were listened to, and then when the time came to move out, they were ready. Dean drove, Castiel sitting beside him, leg thumping up and down. Colby and Springer talked amongst themselves in the back. Dean heard some laughter, maybe from an attempt at a joke, at light-heartedness. But how deeply they truly felt it, Dean didn’t know, but he figured its reach was short.

“Stop that,” Dean told Cas who continued moving his leg up and down.

“Dean.”

In that one word he knew what Castiel meant.

This was hard for him, not having more of whatever the hell he took. But that shit was poison, and he couldn’t have Cas like that. Right now wasn’t a time for a detox, but he didn’t need him chugging pills when he was out near quarantine. There’d been plenty of people they’d lost in camp to addiction, some of them purposefully overdosing. Others had just gotten high, and then wandered out, maybe hoping a Croat would kill them. After the first ones had been turned into Croats and came back to the camp, Dean had had them shot. And any others who tried to dissent were kept in a holding cell for a day while they talked it out.

“Look, I need you as you for this,” Dean said, putting a hand on Cas’ leg to try and steady him.

“You know I’m not me.”

“Would you quit it with the self-deprecation today?”

“Sorry, one of my many moods now that I’m human. I wonder what it’ll be tomorrow. Maybe repressed guilt.”

“We all got a case of that, buddy.”

“Some more than most,” Castiel responded, pointedly looking at Dean.

Dean tried to ignore his look. This wasn’t something he wanted to talk about: his failure to say _yes_ to Michael. When the time had come he hadn’t done it, and he’d lost Sam, and the world had turned into this post-apocalyptic shitshow.

And then he’d tried saying _yes_.

But no one had been there to listen.

Humanity was left to deal with Lucifer on their own.

And deal with Lucifer they would, even though Dean was stabbed as he remembered his face. Sam.

He had to kill Sam. That’s what it was at the end of the day, not just killing Lucifer, but killing his baby brother.

The jeep trundled along the path, the road as uneven and rocky as Dean’s thoughts. Tiny patters of rain started up on the canvas roof of the jeep. It was good canvas though, military. Dean had gotten the jeep from one of the abandoned bases — even with the army still around, there were a few that were deserted, too close to hot zones.

Rain fell.

And Dean thought about having to kill Sam. Not even holding onto Castiel was enough to stop his pain.

At the end of the day, it was about them, about two brothers who God wanted to kill each other. That’s the way it was.

And in Dean’s face, it wasn’t Lucifer’s haughty, pleased expression he pictured getting a bullet between the eyes. It was Sam’s tearful, pleading gaze.

But it was what he had to do.

Sam was gone.

And Dean wasn’t who he was.

He was the Apocalypse now.

They all were.

The dirt turned to thick mud, pulling at the strong wheels, and the world was damp and dreary. Even Castiel seemed like a faraway thing, Dean’s head already turning towards the mission.

The mission, that’s what the day was about.

He had to keep his thoughts to one day, and every day there was something new. Like the U.S. fucking army showing up on his doorstep.

“Dean, it’ll be okay,” Castiel assured.

They both knew he was lying.

Off to battle.


	3. Sic Infit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _So It Begins_

The headache pounding away between Sam’s eyes drew him from the maps he was looking at. He winced, putting his hand to his face, eyes sliding closed.

Oh god, this _hurt_.

And he thought maybe he’d seen Dean.

Sam couldn’t connect the dots though, the pieces too far apart, too fragmented, to make any sense whatsoever. Ruby was by his side immediately, one hand going to his arm, the other reaching up to touch his face. A slight tremble went through Sam at her touch.

“What is it?” she asked. “Sammy, talk to me.”

Sam grunted, and then answered, “Headache.”

“You need more blood,” Ruby told him.

She left his side, and before Sam knew it, she was pulling up a chair to sit herself down in, and taking off her leather jacket. She held a knife, hilt out towards him. Sam pulled his hand away from his face to stare.

“No, I can’t,” he said.

“Sam, you get headaches when you need blood, and if you don’t stop it it only gets worse. You’ll be down and out. Do you really want that? When you want to find Dean?”

One mention of Dean and it was all Sam needed to know Ruby was right. He couldn’t be having debilitating withdrawals when Dean was what he needed, when he was his sole mission for now.

Sam let out a disgruntled growl, took the blade, and then grabbed her arm, slicing into it. His body did not ignore that Ruby moaned when he broke her skin. And then she moaned as he leaned down, and brought her bleeding arm up, as he licked, as he sucked.

“That’s it, Sammy. Good.”

Sam groaned at the praise, lowering to his knees, pressing against her. With his arm he held her legs up against himself, hugging her to him. There wasn’t anything but this. The pounding in his head was lessening as hot power went over his tongue and then down to his stomach. It spread into his veins, into his system, and it was hot, red. Sam was buzzing and tingling from it, and his whole body was awash with this sensual heat, like the way his mouth felt after a shot of vodka.

Headache completely gone now, feeling sated, Sam pulled back from her, but looked up into her dark eyes as he started kissing a trail up her arm.

“Sam, I thought we had work to do.”

As an answer he just licked her skin. He did have work to do, but the part of him high on demon blood wanted this. For now it was the only part of him.

“Don’t tell me I’m not turning you on,” he said.

“You are.”

“Then—”

“Sam, as much as I’d love to have you right now, I think you’ll regret it. At least… now you will, now that you know, that you remember.”

Sam pulled back at her words, realizing that she was right. With the rush in him, taking over everything, he’d forgotten what he hated about himself, forgotten what he’d _done_ , done to her, repeatedly.

But then he argued, “It won’t be like that this time.”

“You’re mad at me, remember?”

“Do you not want to?”

“I’m just worried you don’t really want to. I don’t want you to do something you’ll regret.”

“And… what would _he_ do?” Sam asked.

Ruby pressed her legs closer up against him and put a hand in his hair. She twisted her hand in his brown locks, and she pulled, tilting his head back. Both their mouths were open, heavy breaths leaving them, as they stared at each other.

“You know.”

So Sam withdrew. He heaved out a long breath, trying to clear the arousal from his head, his blood, but it stayed. The blood licked and caressed him, and it carried him up and up and up. Warmth lived in him, and he almost wanted more of it.

Somewhere in his mind, Dean was still there, at some camp or whatever, but Sam wasn’t sure he trusted that. It was just his imagination.

And with the headaches gone, he could now focus on actually finding Dean, not just hoping he’d gotten together a group of survivors and had made a settlement of some sort.

They weren’t in the kitchen any longer, were in what had been some doctor’s main office. It wasn’t very large, given that mental health facilities probably hadn’t gotten much funding before the Apocalypse, but it would do. There were maps on the desk, and they had red pens. Some locations were already marked, hot spots, quarantine zones. Sam and Ruby had spent the past half hour pouring over them with her explaining it all to him.

The world was broken up, damaged.

Europe, Asia, and Africa were handling themselves a bit better than North America, but Sam wasn’t very surprised at that. Maybe there had been the “American Dream,” or America thought itself the greatest country in the world, but really, it’d been a mess. That’s what happened when it you built a country on the genocide of indigenous peoples. You couldn’t really go up from there.

“So we don’t know where Dean is,” Sam eventually said, looking back at the top map now.

There was a question mark out near Kansas, maybe a spot where Dean had been? Sam wasn’t too sure.

Ruby stood now, going to his side. Her arm instinctively went around his waist. Sam leaned into it, even as he burned with some sort of unpleasant emotion.

“We thought we had him once. He doesn’t make it easy for us. Five years and Lucifer hasn’t been able to find him.”

Right. Lucifer.

Sam called into his head, hoping— well, he wasn’t sure what he was hoping for: _Hello?_

Silence.

But then, after a few moments of waiting he got back a low, gravelly, _Sa-ammy_. It dragged out all soft and sensual, like fingers brushing against silk. The pleasantness of it brought on disgust, horror. Sam shuddered.

“You okay?” Ruby asked, noticing it.

“It’s him,” he responded, knowing she would understand what he was talking about. “Okay,” he continued, picking up the top map and examining it. He was comparing it to the one underneath. He furrowed his brow. “Why is Houston marked?”

“President had it bombed. I guess Lucifer thought it could be a good place to set up shop.”

“Is anything… _there?_ ” Sam asked.

Ruby started rifling through the maps, and picked out a specific one. It was of Texas, and it had a copious amount of notes on it: quarantine zones, Croat hot spots, the territories of demons, military bases, and tentative markings of human settlements.

“We’re not sure,” she responded. “Lucifer hasn’t been able to get in close enough to see. Military’s packed in too tight.”

Sam tilted his head over his map, and looked down at the one of Texas on the desk. Then he looked at the one he held.

“Would Dean be there by any chance? Since we can’t get in it’d be a good place to hide.”

Ruby’s mouth pulled down in a frustrated curve. “I don’t know. Hard to say.”

“Maybe we should check Houston,” he said.

“Sam, the military—”

“Will be dealt with,” he finished, cutting her off. “Alright, what do we have for vehicles? And what’s the numbers? How many demons?”

“Sam, you can’t just go out to Houston because you feel like it.”

“Why not?”

Ruby took the map from his hands, and then held them, pulling him close, making sure he was looking at her.

“The demons, they don’t know you’re… _you_. They don’t know, and if they did, I… I know you were meant to be the Boy King, but that was years ago. Who knows if they respect you anymore? Now they just see you as Lucifer’s bitch.”

_Yes, my bitch._ The cold words invaded his head, and Sam shuddered. _In every sense of the term,_ it went on.

_Shut up._

“Sam?”

“What if I pretend?”

“What do you mean?”

“What if I pretend I’m him?”

Ruby shook her head, but lowered her gaze, thinking. “I don’t know… It might be too much for you.”

“Ruby, who’s in charge here?” Sam asked.

Her head snapped up, eyes wide, knowing that Sam was suddenly in a different mood, or wasn’t here for her being gentle with him.

“Until Lucifer takes control again, you are.”

“Good. Now get me a count of our forces. We’ll leave some demons here, make the humans think this place can still be of interest to them. And we’ll march for Houston in two hours. Get me a count of vehicles, weapons. Get what you can fixed up.”

“And then what?” she asked, though she was already stepping away to do as he said since it was a clear order and she had no choice but to follow it.

“Then we attack whatever part of the army was stupid enough to set up camp near there. Maybe we can even lay siege.”

“And Dean?”

“He’ll come to me.”

“Are you sure? He wants the Colt, and—”

“He’ll come to me!” Sam snapped, looking back at his desk now, fists planted on the wood. He didn’t have time to see the hurt or the anger that was probably on Ruby’s face and threaded into her stance. “Now, go. Do as I said.”

“As you wish, Sam.”

_Good,_ the voice in his head purred. Sam closed his eyes, groaning, as pleasure flooded him. _Good, Sammy._

Sam wondered if he ordered that voice around if it would listen. It hadn’t earlier, but maybe if he tried hard enough…

_You can’t silence me. I am you._

_No, you’re the Devil._

_Same thing._

Sam squeezed his eyes shut, and he tensed, his knuckles turning white. He did what he could to keep himself from wiping everything off the desk with a violent sweep of his arm. Hell, he even wanted to flip it over, see if he was strong enough to throw it with Lucifer possessing him.

_Do it,_ the voice urged. _See how powerful I’ve made you._

_No._

_Admit it, it’s tempting._

_No._

_Is that the only word you know?_

_Shut. Up._

_I’ll be around._

Sam hung his head, breathing heavy. The voice seemed to have left him for now, but there was still that niggling feeling in his head, like pressure, like pleasure, like… like he wasn’t alone.

_Am I doing the right thing?_ Sam wondered.

There was no answer this time.

And he wasn’t sure if he was relieved or not.

* * *

In two hours, a third of the demons that had been in the city the sanitarium was in were ready to march. There were vehicles; trucks, jeeps, but not enough to hold his army. The rest of the demons would be staying put, making it seem like Lucifer could still be there. It was probably best to throw off the humans.

Sam knew there was a camp of demons near Houston that he could meet up with, order, take under his control.

As he sat in the back of a jeep with Ruby, some demon he didn’t know the name of driving, Ruby asked, “Why aren’t we just, you know, blipping over there?”

The column began to move out, now that the head of the column was making sufficient distance down the ruined street.

“Blipping?” Sam asked.

“You can fly.”

Sam pulled his lips into a straight line.

No. No flying. He didn’t want that. He _didn’t_ want what Lucifer had given to him, not even now.

He didn’t, right?

It wasn’t Lucifer that had gotten the demons moving, that had come up with a plan. That was Sam. And it was just Sam. Or so he hoped. But there was a rush he felt at having so many listen to his orders, at knowing they were all under his control. All he had to do was say the word and they’d do anything he wished. Even Ruby was his to control.

That thought made a cramp start forming in the pit of his stomach, and he shifted with discomfort.

“And the rest of us — we can teleport.”

“I want the humans to know we’re on the move.”

“How come?”

“Because it’ll get back to Dean that way.”

“I still don’t know what you think you’re going to accomplish in Houston.”

“I’m going to conquer. Isn’t that what I should want? More of the world in my grasp?”

There was a long pause, Ruby taking in his words, and then she asked, voice low, “Are you sure about this?”

“No. But we’re all damned anyway, aren’t we? So let’s make it count.”

A light rain began to fall, pattering on the roof of the jeep, as the column moved out. And Sam searched in his head for… for that thing, for _him._

_What the hell am I doing?_ he asked. There was no answer, but some small part of him was doing just what he thought he wanted him to do.

But he wasn’t going to be the Devil’s bitch, or his slave. Sam was calling the shots now, even in a world where the Devil reigned.

* * *

The jeep was attacked thirty miles outside of Camp Chitaqua. Croats.

They must’ve broken lose from one of the quarantine zones, made it past the army, either by infecting them or killing them. Dean knew it was most likely the former. Something about the virus made the Croats want to add more to their own, make their numbers grow.

Croats were fighting to get into the jeep, and with all their tugging and scraping, one of the doors in the back had gotten open. Springer’s leg was grabbed. He was kicking, trying to get free. Colby had been shooting Croats at nearly point blank, right between the eyes, but now he paused to help Springer. That was when the Croats went for him. There were a few heart-pounding and tense seconds, but he managed to fend them off for now.

Dean was trying to maneuver the jeep, to get them out of there, but there were so many, and he could only run over so many bodies before an impassible hill was made of the dead.

Castiel was by his side still, a knife in hand, and Dean was itching to draw his gun.

“Springer, get your ass back in here!” he called as the Croats pulled at him harder.

“I’m trying, sir!” he answered, though his voice was tight with fear.

He was dragged out of the jeep.

_Fuck._

Colby was screaming for Springer, and Springer was shrieking. Dean didn’t see what happened next, but he knew that Springer was gone, was no more. The Croats had infected him. It wouldn’t take effect right away, and Dean could imagine him wandering around the streets, the wilderness, whimpering and crying, feeling all the loneliness of the world, before the virus finally fully infected him and took hold.

His last moments would be spent in fear and abandonment.

Dean hated himself for it.

Colby tried jumping out, probably to save Springer, but Cas grabbed him. Colby was fighting, kicking, clawing.

“He’s gone!” Castiel yelled. “He’s gone! Let him go.”

“No! No-o!”

Dean took out his Colt MK IV, the gun that had lasted years and been so handy during the Apocalypse, and he started firing, trying to clear a path. A Croat tried to get his door open, and he shot it, before keeping one hand on the handle, pulling inward.

_They are_ not _getting in here._

Finally, there was an opening. Dean stepped down hard on the gas. The jeep shot forward, hit some Croats, and they went down under the wheels. It was definitely the most bumpy ride Dean had ever been on. But soon they were shooting away, back into the open land, free of the infected.

Colby had stopped fighting, just stayed still, a tear rolling down his cheek. Castiel let him go, and pat him on the chest. He took his seat again, Colby doing the same.

Just another day in Hell on Earth.

* * *

The rain stopped, the sun went down, and they hadn’t reached their destination yet. But they were going to set up camp. Now that they were paused, Dean had time to think about what had happened, had time to blame himself for it.

So as he sat by the fire a couple feet outside his tent, he was drinking.

Castiel came and sat down on the felled log beside him. He took the drink from Dean, sharing it with him, and Dean was too tired to refute him, to say anything, really.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Castiel said.

“Wasn’t it? I had him come out with us.”

“And he was one of your soldiers. He would’ve followed you anywhere. They all would.”

Dean took the flask back, drank till his mouth and throat burned, and then he said, “Yeah, well maybe they shouldn’t.”

“This isn’t the first time you’ve doubted yourself.”

“And it sure ain’t gonna be the last.”

He passed the flask back to Castiel. The former angel drank.

“But that doesn’t mean we stop,” Castiel said after he swallowed.

“Look at you, spouting words of wisdom,” Dean ribbed.

“I _can_ do that occasionally, you know.”

“But what now?” Dean asked. 

He looked across the clearing where they’d set up camp for the night. Colby was already asleep. Dean was starting to wish he’d brought more people with him, or possibly hadn’t brought anyone with him at all. There was strength in numbers, but if no one was around to die, then maybe Dean’s guilt wouldn’t hit him so hard. But it did, and it was like rocks piling up on him underwater, and they kept him from rising.

Dean drowned.

When Castiel put the flask aside, and began to caress Dean’s thigh, drawing him towards him, Dean was relieved. At least with sex he didn’t have to think, just had to feel, and just _knew_ that for the moment he was there with that other person, there with Cas.

It was what Dean wanted. And maybe after such a shit day, it was what he needed.

They hadn’t had much for dinner, and they’d burn away the calories they’d taken in, but god, maybe it didn’t matter. Dean just needed Cas right now. And it seemed like Cas needed him.

Dean pushed back and then swung his leg over the log so that he was straddling it (though he’d much rather be straddling Castiel). That thought in mind, he put one leg over his lap, drawing him close. Maybe what he saw on Castiel’s face was a smile; he couldn’t be too sure with only the light of the fire. And Castiel didn’t smile much anymore. No one did.

Castiel put a hand to the back of Dean’s neck, forcing his mouth to his. Dean nearly moaned when their lips met, but he didn’t want to wake up Colby.

Castiel’s lips were as fine as they always were, soft, warm, and he moved them strongly against Dean’s. It sent a tickle down through his throat, his torso, to in between his legs. That tickle became pressure. Dean surged forward, groaning, and he and Castiel fell off the log, on the far side of the fire.

Castiel laughed, but Dean was soon covering his mouth with his own, trying to keep him quiet.

“Dean…” Castiel said in between a kiss.

“Mm!”

“Dean…”

Dean pulled back, though he wanted to kiss him till both their mouths were swollen. “Yeah?”

“Maybe we should take it to your tent.”

So that’s what they did. Dean was in a hurry to take his clothes off, and Castiel was too. When they came together again it was when all they’d feel was skin. They knelt in the tent, and Castiel — always brave now that he tended to host orgies — had his hand already sneaking down to Dean’s ass. Dean growled at him when he squeezed, and Castiel just gave him a knowing look. One brow raised.

“You know one of us is gonna have to keep watch after this,” Dean said.

“And?”

“We’re gonna be tired as shit.”

“I’ll do it.”

“Fine, just remember you said that.”

Castiel began to caress Dean’s body, hands light, but wanting, and Dean groaned. His body warmed at Castiel’s touch, and he began to harden.

“What were we talking about?” Castiel asked.

Dean cracked a grin, but that soon changed into a look of aroused disbelief when Castiel lowered himself, mouth close to Dean’s cock.

Dean chuckled, though he found it hard to even think straight.

“Skipping some basic foreplay, huh?”

“Calm down. I’ll kiss your chest later.” Castiel winked at him, and Dean knew what that meant. He’d be paying attention to his nipples after. God, Dean loved when he did that.

Sometimes Dean liked to be more in charge, well, while still ending up with Castiel inside of him. But sometimes it was a fight. Castiel was really the most dominant one here. It made all of Dean just sing with pleasure.

His mouth opened in a silent moan as Castiel took him into his mouth. He couldn’t take him in all the way, even with practice, but Dean didn’t care. His mouth was wonderful as it was, so warm, so _wet_. Oh _god_. Dean moaned. Castiel began to pump him, and his other hand played up and down Dean’s back. It was gentle, and the pleasure was infuriatingly acute, enough to have Dean arching away from his hand, and further into Castiel’s mouth.

The son of a bitch, that was probably his plan.

Dean’s back was on fire from Castiel’s simple touch, and his cock was even moreso. Oh fuck, he had the best mouth.

The sounds that were made as he sucked only served to arouse Dean more, and it didn’t escape his notice that Castiel was heavy and hard in between his legs, cock bobbing as he shifted, trying to get a better position.

Dean thrusted forward, needing more, wanting him. And Castiel complied as much as he could, but then he pulled back, leaving Dean panting.

His eyes were closed, mouth wide open, as Castiel kissed his way up his body. When he was pressed up against him, hardness against his thigh, he took one of Dean’s nipples into his mouth.

Dean grasped the back of Castiel’s head, holding him to him as his mouth worked. Any attention given to him here just made a twang of pleasure shoot through his body, down to where he couldn’t take it anymore.

When Castiel tackled him onto his back, mouth going to his other nipple, Dean was nearly helpless. Though he had fought back a bit, loving any rough moments with the former angel. Castiel hummed against Dean’s skin, against his rosy nipple, the vibrations almost too pleasant.

Dean moaned. Castiel had a hand in his hair, and his other one was diligently working over his cock.

“What about you, baby?” Dean asked.

“All I want is to be in you.”

Dean’s body flushed hot at that, and Castiel grinned, an eyebrow raising. He surely knew what he’d done to him.

“In my pack,” Dean said, “there’s—”

“Yeah, I know where it is.”

Castiel got off Dean, leaving Dean to stretch out in all his naked glory. Dean hadn’t really had abs before the Apocalypse, but all of him was muscular now. He needed to be, in order to keep his people safe, in order to survive. So there was the softness of his freckled skin, but the hardness of body, muscles seeming like they’d been etched into being on a statue, the sculptor filled with creative genius. His cock was erect, resting up against his stomach, and it was pink from Castiel’s mouth. The head was the same rosy color of his lips, and it was leaking precum.

Castiel, well… Castiel was even more perfect to Dean. His thicker body was hard too, from years of running, fighting. And if Dean didn’t try too hard, he wouldn’t see the effects of drugs on him. He just saw perfection. Just saw pale skin, dark hair, blue eyes, pink lips. And god, his shoulders. If Dean looked at him from the right angle, it seemed as if there were the bones of wings branching off from Castiel’s shoulders. And they were strong shoulders at that. His cock wasn’t as long as Dean’s, but dear lord, it was thicker. And Dean could stare at him for days. His nipples were hard, and the vein on the underside of his cock was straining. Dean imagined it throbbing hot against his tongue.

Castiel went through Dean’s pack, found what he was looking for, and then he came over and wet his hand with it. Dean was already spreading his legs for him. He grunted as he felt Castiel’s touch, and as it penetrated. Dean was breathing deep into his belly, making himself relax. It was hard to do so, the tension from the day digging its hooks into him.

“You need to get better at relaxing,” Castiel told him. “I have something we can both take if you—”

“No. No drugs,” Dean argued. “Just kiss me.”

And Castiel did so, his tongue entering Dean’s mouth. Dean playfully let his teeth scrape against it. Cas moaned and then deepened the kiss, and with him kissing him so thoroughly till he was almost out of it, Dean’s body was able to relax. It let Castiel slide in. Dean spread his legs further, the action involuntary, and lifted them a bit too. And then he _whimpered_ , he god damn _whimpered_ , as Castiel found that lovely spot inside of him. Pleasure had stabbed through him in an arc right to his cock, and now it was leaking precum fiercely. Castiel added another finger and rubbed.

Dean was helpless as he kissed him, feeling too good to do anything, just let himself be taken.

“There we go,” Cas breathed. “That’s it, Dean.”

Dean still didn’t know where the angel — former angel — had learned about dirty talking or a praise kink, but god damn it, he had to personally thank whoever had done so. Probably one of the women at camp. Or maybe they’d all taught him. To Dean’s surprise, he didn’t feel the usual bite of jealousy he did at the prospect of Cas sleeping with someone else. He just imagined him, flesh bare and exposed, surrounded by naked female bodies, and they writhed and grinded, and Cas took and _took_.

In a flash, Dean reached down, pulling Cas’ hand away.

“God, no. Gonna make me cum.”

“That’s the idea.”

“Get in me.”

“I was,” Castiel answered, giving him a coy look.

Dean growled, lifting himself up on his elbows.

“You know what I mean.”

Castiel started going closer to Dean’s head, up his body. Dean’s cheeks flushed more furiously as a moan left him at the sight of Castiel’s cock so close to his mouth.

“Be good first.”

“Yes, sir,” Dean said, springing forward to take Castiel’s cock into his mouth. He closed his eyes, moaning around the hardened flesh. Sucking Castiel’s cock was second nature to Dean now. He loved it, he wanted it. Sometimes when he was all alone in his cabin pouring over some maps or papers, he found himself wanting it. But all he could really stick for was putting a pen in his mouth. Dean just felt like he had to have things in his mouth.

His favorite things to have in his mouth were beer bottles and Castiel.

And this time didn’t disappoint. Dean was used to the salty flavor of precum, and didn’t mind it one bit. He bobbed his head and sucked as much as he could, even did his best to coat Castiel in spit. His stomach was flipping over and over on itself whenever Castiel’s cock twitched or throbbed.

Fuck, Cas wanted him.

Dean wanted Cas.

Not feeling like using words, Dean pulled off of him, and then rolled onto his stomach. He lifted up just his ass, getting on his knees, and he gyrated his hips suggestively.

Castiel got the idea.

When he began to thrust into Dean, Dean forgot all about his day. He forgot about the past week, the past month, the past year, the past _five_ _years_. There wasn’t Hell on Earth, or the demons, or the Croats, or people relying on him. It was just him and Castiel, as one, flesh together.

Dean’s body accepted Castiel’s readily, and he let out an animalistic groan as that large, thick cock plunged into him. Castiel had ahold of his hips with those big hands of his, and Dean swore he was going to lose his mind.

When the thickened head of his cock found his prostrate, Dean bit his sleeping bag, crying out against it.

And Castiel went at him, hips moving like fluid at first, not reaching all the way in. But Dean wanted to change that. Now with each one of Castiel’s thrusts he brought himself back, more forceful each time, slamming against him. He just _wanted_ him, and this wasn’t enough.

Castiel got the idea and fucked him harder, their skin slapping together. And oh _fuck_ , he reached so deep like this. Dean was going wild, biting down harder on his sleeping bag, tears leaking from his eyes, trying desperately to not scream.

Castiel pulled out of him, much to Dean’s chagrin, and Dean released the sleeping bag, mouth falling open, head tilting to the side.

“Lie down,” Castiel told him.

Dean did as he said, and then Castiel was lying down behind Dean, both of them on their sides. Castiel put a leg in between Dean’s, and then he was entering him again. His other hand reached around to pump his cock. Dean bit his bottom lip till he bled as Cas took him in this position. Castiel planted kisses all over his face. And his mouth occasionally went to his shoulder, leaving marks of red.

Dean wanted marks of black and blue too, but it wasn’t a good night for that. Maybe when they were back at the camp, he’d ask Cas to hurt him, but for now, this was good, this was what he needed.

The pains of the day were obliterated as Dean came, and he came hard. Castiel soon followed. They lay like that for a long time, Castiel caressing Dean, an arm wrapped around him, and Dean felt over his forearm with his fingertips. Castiel kissed his cheek.

God, he wished he’d fucked him like this _before_ the Apocalypse. Maybe then he would’ve learned a thing or two much faster, or they would’ve at least been together. But now Cas liked to get high, liked to have orgies, and Dean liked to sleep around when he got upset.

But there was none of that for now.

Still, the real world existed.

“You should get back out there,” Dean said. “You’re taking first watch.”

Castiel grabbed his earlobe with his teeth and pulled at it, growling playfully, and then he grabbed a towel from his pack to dry himself off. He playfully tossed it at Dean, who caught it, when he started to get dressed.

And then he was on his way out. Dean watched his retreating form, and then his shadow against the closed flap of the tent as it got smaller and smaller.

Dean lay back down, breathing hard.

Springer’s screams sounded in his head, sharp, and incisive, so powerful he thought his ears would bleed.

Reality called. It wanted its suffering back.

* * *

Demons didn’t need sleep (though they could do so if they wanted to), and they could keep going all night, so Sam didn’t tell them to set up camp, even when his headaches started, even when flashes of his brother and Castiel came with them. But even though they kept moving he still needed to sleep, which was something he had to hide from them, so he and Ruby ended up in a large military truck, the back covered with canvas. She drove, and he tried to get to sleep in the back. It had irked him that the back was open to the elements and to the view of those closest in the column behind him, so he’d tied some tarp in place. It was dark now, the sky cloudy that night, no light pouring through.

Perhaps that was what Sam needed to sleep. No light.

But then he realized all he focused on was the sound of the tires rolling against the road, air flapping against the tarp and canvas.

And then there was his breathing. Just his. So empty, alone.

But… he wasn’t really alone, was he?

_Of course not, bunk buddy._

Sam grit his teeth. _Bunk buddy._ That was something Lucifer would call him in the Cage, if the Cage was even real.

_Well, which one feels more real?_

Sam was aggravated from the question, wanted to shout that he didn’t know, but instead he just let out a frustrated growl and rolled over, facing the front end of the truck. Maybe thinking about Ruby would help.

_Sure, it’ll help. She fucked you over after all._

“Enough!” Sam shouted.

“Sam, you okay back there?” Ruby called.

Before Sam could answer there was another presence beside him, and then _over_ him, and a hand was covering his mouth. He tried to scream, but red eyes glowed, and in that light that was barely there he could see Lucifer put a finger to his mouth, a _shh_ motion.

The hand came away from his mouth, and Sam responded, voice weak, shaky, “Yeah—yeah, I’m fine.” Then, to Lucifer, who was _very much there_ and _very much in the flesh_ , “What are you doing here?”

“You owe me a favor, remember?”

Sam didn’t remember. But it wasn’t like the memory was just blank, wholly missing, or something he didn’t even realize was missing. There was _something_ there, like a forgotten word on the tip of his tongue. But he couldn’t find it, couldn’t dig deeper. It stayed hidden, frustrating him.

Sam just shook his head, feeling terror pulse through his veins and he started backing away on his hands and knees.

Lucifer let out a huff and sat down on the bench in the truck.

“Where are you gonna go?” he asked.

“Away from you.”

“Quiet, or we’ll have to tell Ruby what we’re up to.”

“Doesn’t she already know?” Sam asked.

A shrug; that’s what that slight, barely imperceptible movement had to be.

“Sammy?” Sam heard Ruby call from the driver’s seat.

“Uh…”

“Fine, you want to tell her? Tell her. By all means, I won’t stop you. She’s not gonna help you though. Usually this _is_ around the time I show up, and well, you know… have my fun.”

“It’s not fun.”

“Says who?”

Sam just growled at him, and then responded to Ruby, “Just… uh, just dealing with Lucifer… again.”

There wasn’t an answer, and there was a fear that beat in that silence.

Eventually, “Keep him busy.”

“Yeah. Yeah, got it.”

But already Sam’s voice was fading away. Lucifer stood over him, and Sam felt so small.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“You.”

The answer was so short and simple and to the point that it made Sam’s stomach drop to his feet, his heart claw up into his throat, and ice freeze over his veins.

“Well you can’t have me,” he tried to snarl, but instead it came out weak, and sounding more like a plea.

“Okay, then you lose all this.”

“All _what?_ ” Sam asked.

“Your powers, that neat, little thing you can do with your voice. All of it — gone.”

“I never wanted it to begin with.”

“You sure? What’s it giving you? Come on, think!”

Now Sam remembered, and he swallowed hard, even as Lucifer crouched down and snapped his fingers near his face, letting Sam know that he wasn’t answering quickly enough.

Finally: “Control.”

“That’s it! And the prize for a million dollars goes to Sammy Winchester!”

Sam tried getting up, Lucifer settled on him, legs straddling him. Sam grunted.

“So…” Saliva filled his mouth and he couldn’t go on. He swallowed it, then tried to start again, “So what do I have to do?”

“Mm, not much.”

Sam was taken aback. “ _Really?_ ”

“What, you think I’m gonna rape you?”

“Uh… yeah?”

“Wro-ong!” he sang. “Ew, Sam, you’ve got a _gross_ mind.” Lucifer shuddered above him, _against_ him, and then he asked, “Are all humans like that?”

Sam tried sitting up, shoving him off.

“Fuck you!”

Lucifer fought him, pinning Sam down against the floor of the truckbed. Sam couldn’t see very well, but there was a deeper darkness where he was, and he could feel his cold breath trailing out over his skin, his lips. Oh god, his mouth was so close.

“I just need… one… little… thing.”

As Lucifer had spoken his voice lowered, grew breathy, and then his lips were against Sam’s.

Sam’s face furrowed up in disgust, and he cried out, doing what he could do push Lucifer off of him. Lucifer put a hand to his neck to hold him in place, Sam’s stomach flipping at the touch of his skin. As it remained there his stomach decided to upgrade to a nauseous scale of what was probably an eight out of ten. His head spun.

“You don’t do this, and it’s the Cage.”

Immediately Sam brought his head up, his lips forward. At first he awkwardly bumped into Lucifer, but then he was kissing him. Sam had steeled himself for it, but nothing could actually compare to him willingly bringing his lips to Lucifer’s. They were soft in the wrong way, shaped in such a way that Sam recognized them as something evil, and they were too wet.

It was all just wrong, and horrible, and disgusting. Sam didn’t even like men. And even if he had, Lucifer wouldn’t be on his list.

But before he could really start wishing it was over, it was. Just a few seconds and Lucifer pulled away. He pat Sam on the chest, got up, and then he was gone.

Sam exhaled, the air cold around him.


End file.
